


does skyrim have therapists

by orphan_account



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-02 09:37:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11506677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: You are the Dragonborn. You remember that, now.





	does skyrim have therapists

You are the Dragonborn. You remember that, now.

After you scrub the smell of Apocrypha from your clothes, your hair, your skin, and you board the Northern Maiden for the freezing journey back to Skyrim, and you board the carriage for the long journey to Falkreath, and you stumble across the front stoop of Lakeview Manor… You stand, one hand dangling your trophies from your trip, one hand resting on the hilt of your blade. You stand there, in the warm entryway of your home, and you feel like screaming.

There are days you don’t know yourself. Nights where you wake up in a cold sweat, and your hands are all wrong, and your hair is too short, and your voice is too soft, and your horns are gone, and there are nights where you practically fall out of bed, scrambling with the latch to the balcony, gulping down the cold night air like each breath would be your last.

 Those nights are the worst.

Solstheim had been an adventure. A new land to be conquered, a place where all your lives weren’t screaming at you from the shadows. You drag Raven Rock out of poverty, you gain the acceptance of the Telvanni wizard, you reclaim Thirsk Hall, you defeat the Dragon Priests…

The Dragon Priests.

You fumble with the sack in your hand. The cloth inside slides through your fingers like oil until you reach the bottom of the bag.

Miraak’s mask glints in the warm light of the entryway. It looks out of place in your rustic home, its angles and swooping curves whispering of dark things, of tangled corridors and twisting limbs. Or maybe you have an overactive imagination.

You think it’ll look good on the second floor mannequin.

You don’t dream that night.

Or the next.

But the third night has you wrenching open the shutters, chest heaving, desperate to get air, shoulders quaking as you stand, gripping the windowsill and staring out over the lake.

There was a Nord. His name was Gunther. He had a blond beard, and he bore the Shield of Ysgramor like a badge of honor. To him, it was.

Your head whips around. From this angle, you can see the mannequin. It hasn’t moved. It’s just a mannequin.

You sink to the floor, wrapping your arms around your knees.

You remember joining the Dark Brotherhood. You remember the heft and feel of the Blade of Woe. You remember Astrid’s pained gasps and the smell of burnt flesh. You remember how it clung to your fur for weeks after. You remember you don’t have any fur.

You go back to sleep.

A courier arrives the next day with a letter. It smells of ash. Something in you knows it’s from Solstheim. You don’t read the letter.

You stand on the outcropping of rock, a little ways south of the broken table that lies between your home and the lake. There’s another necromancer there. You wonder what it is that draws them to that spot. You contemplate recruiting some friends to help you shove the table into the lake.

A bird sings overhead.

Shadowmere trots over to the hay you have stacked against the wall of the house.

You contemplate burning it down. But it wouldn’t do to destroy your own shrine. Shrine.

_Here, in my shrine._

Your house is a shrine to your own achievements. You have Daedric Weapons on display in your basement. There’s a stuffed bear in there somewhere. You’re a bit of a magpie, honestly.

 _That you have forgotten_.

You turn on your heel. You need to read that letter. It could be important.

_Here do you toil._

The seal breaks easily under your fingers.

_That you might remember._

Miraak’s mask glints in the firelight.

 _What faithless minds have stolen_.

And suddenly, you don’t remember a thing.


End file.
